


The Alphabet of Sherlock Holmes

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alphabet, M/M, Marriage, POV: Sherlock, POV: first person, Romance, blog/journey entry, post-HLV, series 3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 08:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4600812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock attempts to write something. Occasional abuse of alliteration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alphabet of Sherlock Holmes

**The Alphabet of Sherlock Holmes**

 

 **A** is the azure of John’s eyes when he’s pleased with something, _me_ , crinkling at the corners, pupils taking over too much of the blue, the azure of the late-autumn sky. Agreeing with me, acquiescing to something I’ve requested, acknowledging it with one of those smiles of his. 

**B** is the bronze of his skin the day we met, burnished by the blazing Afghanistan sun. Bronze against the ivory of my own, the most perfect blend imaginable. B is the blond of his hair, silvering now. 

**C** is for cock, what John calls me when he’s frustrated with me; funny to use that as an insult when he seems to quite enjoy both mine and his own. Never used to call it that before John, but his word has crept into my mouth, just as his cock has insinuated itself into my body, lips, hands, everything. 

**D** is dancing with John before the wedding, my heart thudding like lead in my chest. Dancing and directing, _No, John, you stepped on three, you’ve got to wait for one for the big step. It’s a waltz. No, there isn’t any four: a waltz is in three. ONE two three, ONE two three. Put your hand on my back. Yes, like that._ Hold me, I never said, the words choked back in my throat. D is dancing with John again, later. I didn’t have to ask him to hold me then; his arms were tight around me and neither of us gave a damn about form or beats by then. 

**E** is the end that must never come because this is eternal, endless, ephemeral and yet earthbound, wholly exquisite, unimagined bliss. _Ewig, éternelle, eterno_. 

**F** is fuck, the word John says when we are, face-to-face, front-down. Up against the fridge once, all the food inside rattling as I fucked him that one time, saying that word in the moment just before my body flew apart, making me feel freer than ever before (but I think that every time we forge this particular bond), which is frequently. 

**G** is the friend, our friend, the detective inspector (ha!) whose name is so elusive, was our best man, and yet for God’s sake, it’s generally impossible to remember this name. He’s so annoying and so gregarious when he wants to be. Gregarious – that should be his name, and yet – ??? 

**H** is Hudders, the bringer of tea, harbinger of things to come. She predicted this, told me it was destined to be, yet I never believed it, not even after John’s lips had been on mine half a dozen times, telling me that his heart was mine to hold, his hands closed around mine, his handsome face heartrendingly hopeful, his eyes holding mine until I made the words form in my mouth, his lips on mine again a heartbeat later. Mrs Hudson complaining about the noise later, bless. 

**I** is I love you, I love you, I love you. I could say it forever and I will because it’s not just _I_ anymore; it’s _we_ and _us_ and I love it. Paradox: you make me more I than I ever was before in being one with you, the death of _I_ in its incarnation as _we_. 

**J** is John, John, John. My John. Always. I said it. I’ll never take it back. John Hamish Watson. My best friend. My love. My own. John. The most beautiful, most important word in any language. John. I could say it a thousand times over and it would only become more beautiful. John.

 **K** is the first time he kissed me. It nearly killed me, my heart beating so quickly I thought it would kick its way out of my chest, hands clammy with apprehension, no idea what I was meant to do with them or my arms. Lips opening awkwardly when his drew mine apart, patiently showing me, kinaesthetically tracing information onto my skin cells with his own. Infinitely kind and patient, the kiss making me dizzy, his hands steadying me, holding me to the earth so that I didn’t keel over from the shock of the intimacy of it. Feeling the lips of your beloved on your own for the first time – indescribable. For all the kisses that have followed since then, each one unique, exquisite, memorable, whether long or short. (I could spend the rest of my life doing nothing but kissing John.) 

**L** is love. Don’t make me talk about love. Love is unquantifiable. Love is the only magic there is. Love can make a person the best version of himself that there is. John loves me: my very being is therefore made worthy. And I love John. I love John more than I knew it was possible to feel for another person. Love is the waves overflowing the bounds of your being, overwhelming and leaving you helpless to contain it. John absorbs it all and somehow, miraculously, gives it back. Rebuilds me from the foundations of who I am. 

**M** is the marriage I never knew I could possibly want, until the only man I could have ever desired to marry married Mary Morstan. But now he’s married to me, miracle of miracles. I made a request one evening late in May, meticulously avoiding the date of the anniversary of his first marriage in a Moroccan restaurant he’d introduced me to years ago, and he said yes, his azure eyes touchingly misty. _I thought you’d never ask_ , he said. _After all, I’ve been home for months now, and since we’re together, I thought you knew._ My confusion: _Knew what?_ He leaned in, his hands on mine. _That I’m yours, now and forever,_ he told me, and I found myself unable to make the words leave my mouth. 

**N** is for never, the most beautiful word I've ever heard John say. _But you must have stopped loving me, in all that time,_ I’d objected. _You met Mary. You loved her. You married her. You must have stopped loving me_. John looked me in the eye and said, with all his heart, _Never_. 

**O** is for being someone’s one and only, as John tells me over and over again, on repeat. He says he’ll say it until I stop having any doubt about it whatsoever. It’s not that I doubt; it’s just that it feels unbelievable, incredible, impossible. _You’re the only person I’ll ever love again,_ he swears, and when he’s looking into my eyes and saying those words, I do believe it. He brushes it off when I say it in return, this sort of language still awkward in my mouth. _I know, Sherlock. I know and I love it. I believe you. I believe in this: in us. I’ll never stop loving you. I promise. You’re the only one there is for me._ When he says it, I can’t help but feeling that he must be omniscient, that he knows everything there is to know about love, that he can make a promise about the fluctuating, fickle nature of human emotion, but he’s quite obdurate on that point. _You’ve always been the one for me, Sherlock. That’s never going to change._ He is obstinate and I secretly love it. 

**P** is for penetration, the perception of both losing yourself while finding yourself made whole in another person as he enters you for the first time, pushing gently at first, and later, persuaded by the genuine pleading in your voice as your prostate attempts to implode within you, pounding against your pelvis until you’re powerless to filter your reactions, groans pushing out of your throat, _please, John, harder_ , until your body is pulsing out your release, pooling hotly on your stomach, John still going until he comes, his orgasm pervading your senses as you pant into his jaw, his pulse hammering into your chest. John makes the mundane physical world pleasurable, entirely persuasive as a distraction from purely metaphysical matters, precious: the sensation of physically joining with him again. The paradox of being two and yet one. The purity of being loved, being made love to by him. 

**Q** is the queue at City Hall where we argued and I thought he might change his mind about going through with it, marrying the queerest individual he’s ever known, but when I gave voice to my query, his entire demeanour changed. _Look, I get that you’re probably being an annoying tit because you’re nervous. But I promise you: nothing is going to change. All we’re doing now is saying that we want to go on doing this exact thing for the rest of our lives. I told you: I’m yours forever. So stop worrying, all right? I’m not going anywhere. As it happens, I love you a ridiculous amount and I can’t live without you. Please don’t ever think that that’s going to change, Sherlock, because it isn’t._ Q is the rest of the queue trying to hide their indulgent smiles as we kissed then. Embarrassing as it was, it was impossible to not kiss John just then. 

**R** is the ring he gave me, that marks me as his own for all the world to see. The ring that he finds ways of showing off at every opportunity on his own hand. _Yes, let’s get matching ones,_ he’d said in the shop. _That way everyone will know for sure. As if there could be any doubt now!_ That was the other time I kissed him in public. Ridiculous! (Unavoidable.) 

**S** is the way he says my name, making it sound like the most important word that exists. (Silly: we’ve already established that his fills that position!) _Sher_ – he’ll begin, cutting himself off. Just the way his mouth forms to make the _Sh_ of my name. Or the whole thing: _Sherlock._ My entire existence resonating to the sound of his voice saying my name. 

**T** is for talking at last, transparency finally permitted. All of the confessions: _No, I don’t love her. That’s why I came home._ And _Yes, I lied about her phoning the ambulance. She meant for me to die._ The endless explanations. The first kiss of so many. The touching that came after. 

**U** is his uniform, which he only wears to please me now. I was unintelligible the first time he modelled it for me, unable to keep my hands off him, stripping him down to his underwear. He is unbelievably sexy like that, all authoritative and competent, completely charismatic. I both love and hate the way the world underestimates him sometimes. Love that it’s mine and mine alone to revel in, in all its unfathomable appeal. 

**V** is the virginity that he took, as deftly as only John could take anything from someone else. He took it as though it were a gift that he was incredibly fortunate to have received, unwrapping it (me) with gentle fingers and infinite tenderness and care. The virginity that I was embarrassed to admit to, he marvelled at seeing, at relieving me of that first time. His hands touching me everywhere, making me feel things I’d never felt before, never minding when it was overwhelming for me, not caring that I had no idea what to do in return, how to touch him, what to do for him to make him feel the same things he made me feel. He showed me the way with his hands and lips and tongue and penis, let me try everything that he did. Guided me with his voice and body into entering him for the first time, showed me how to put my mouth to a better use than the nervous sounds and words that were coming out of it. His virility encouraged my own, drawing it out of me in waves and streams, feeding my appetite for it, my need for him doubling and trebling at exponential rates, fuelling my lust and inflaming my skin with my want for him. After the first time, we didn’t stop touching for days, not even leaving the bedroom for the most part. 

**W** is for the Watsons who actually did attend John’s second wedding. Neither parent (his father is long gone and his mother deceased), but his sister, two aunts, and an uncle of dubious repute attended our small ceremony and the reception following in my parents’ backyard. My mother hovered and probably welcomed them far too heartily, but at least she didn’t talk about the first wedding or Mary at all, and John’s relatives refrained from saying anything about me, at least in either mine or John’s hearing. Our wedding was a small but happy affair, both of us wearing tuxedos and smiling so hard our faces hurt after. Harry Watson was civil and smiled at me for the first time in our limited and wary history. Mycroft was similarly welcoming to John, which made John wince and grip my hand a little harder than necessary. 

**X** is Mary, his ex-wife. (All right, so this is cheating, but I hardly think John will want a verse about xylophones in this, if I ever show it to him.) The ex-wife/ex-assassin/ex-shadow on both our lives. Their reconciliation lasted all of three weeks and then John was downstairs at the front door one evening in January, meekly asking if he could come in. I didn’t ask him that night how long he meant to stay, but he told me everything in the morning. The falsified pregnancy. The continued lies, even after he’d asked for the truth and caught Mary contradicting her own stories. It took months before the rest of it came out: the feelings he’d always had. The feelings I cautiously admitted to him at last. Mycroft worried about Mary taking it badly, but although she was bitter – there was one spectacular screaming match in the sitting room at Baker Street a week later – she either accepted it or decided not to deal with it at all and moved out of London. Mycroft’s people had her in Guatemala at last check. Not sure what she wants with Guatemala, but I suppose I don’t particularly care, either. Good riddance. 

**Y** is the way I’m yawning at the moment. When John yawns, it unfailingly makes me yawn, too. He yawns with his entire body, looking immensely satisfied after, which somehow fails to make me sleepy in spite of the yawning. Strange, that. 

**Z** is the sound that John is making beside me just now. If he were a cartoon character, that is. Weak, I know, but there it is: I find myself unable to focus on writing a ridiculously poor blog entry (if I ever post it, probably unwise) or journal entry or whatever this is, with John snoring gently in bed beside me. However, and to quote my beloved, if anyone asks, the number of fucks I give at the moment is: zero. 

Good night.


End file.
